Confessions of an Anonymous Nation
by SilverWillowMusic Inc
Summary: Greece has been receiving anonymous 'love' letters for eleven months. But, he longs to umask the author, so he sets a trap... But will the right person fall prey to it, or will a giant misunderstanding be set in motion? Giripan, with added France!
1. Plotting

**[A/N]**

**Another product of our request drive! Rose Fortress, a kind reviewer from our other Giripan fic 'Washed Up!' (and a lovely typo finder) submitted this one. **

**The request was: '**Japan writing secret love letters to Greece in which he spills out all his hidden feelings to him and Greece trying to figure out who the anonymous sender is.'

**We may have deviated from your request slightly, but we hope the essence is retained. We also know it was supposed to be a one-shot, but… it looks like it'll be a two-shot… again… maybe we just can't manage one-shots… (TT-TT). Anyway. Thank you for letting us write it!**

**Warning: Expect fluff, long sentences and comma abuse. 'Tis the way of the SilverWillow. (_.^._.^._.^._.^._) indicates POV or time change.**

**SilverWillowMusic does not own Hetalia, we only wish we did.**

* * *

><p>Greece held the letter between his hands, concentrating, observing every minute detail for the millionth time. A plain white envelope. Heavy, expensive paper for writing letters only. No stamp – meaning it must have been hand-delivered. Black ink in an orderly handwriting that occasionally swooped and ran away with itself, just slightly, as if in a fit of emotion. Then, it would return abruptly to its neat confines as more serious words were placed on the paper, but it wasn't too long before the author's feelings showed themselves in the slant and curl of the letters once more. This letter – how could one letter seem like such a work of art? Revealing so much about the writer, but at the same time, so little.<p>

But the words captured by the ink were what really fascinated and enchanted the reader. Neutral words that disguised the author's identity, mingling in with the odd phrase of passion and feeling that endeared so easily to the anonymous sender. Soft and dreamy words turned to reserved (but still warm) ones. The letters seemed to show a heart that was pure, but loving, but also one tainted by the pain of wishing for things that seemed unlikely to happen. Sometimes, daily life would be mentioned, but only in such a vague way that, again, no real clue could be given as to the writer's identity.

Every month on the first, he would without fail receive one letter from this person, and he would read each one again and again until those words were scripted in his heart. He had only the clues of the personality of the writer and the rich paper used to go by, plus the signature to picture him by. Yes, the sender was male – he had learned this the first time the author had written about someone else talking about him. He didn't care – beauty and kindness are to be admired in either gender. He sometimes called the author "Ànthisi" in his head – the Greek for "bloom", because of his signature. This 'signature' was a delicately drawn, many-petalled flower, curling gracefully at the edges, like a large daisy, or a chrysanthemum. He traced it with his fingertip, reading once more his favourite part of this month's letter.

"_Only yesterday, I was walking through the streets of my town, and behind me, I heard the tinkling of a small bell. I turned around out of curiosity, and there behind me was a small brown cat, lying in the sunshine, and purring to itself as it relaxed. It reminded me so much of you, Greece, that I immediately checked around me for your presence as my heart tinkled with the cat's bell. I couldn't help myself – I sat down beside the cat, right there in the middle of the street, and whispered to it "Hello, Herakles." To my surprise, the cat actually turned its head and purred straight at me! For a strange moment, I almost believed it was you in that cat's eyes. As I walked away, I knew I must have looked strange, as I was flushed and close to laughter, my stomach tingling like an excited child. That such an insignificant moment can make me feel this way – it's wonderful. Every thought of you is wonderful. I only wish I had the courage to tell you such feelings in person, or at least thank you for the many emotions you have made me experience for the first time. Alas, I am a coward who is bound to my simple pen and paper. Still, one day, I will have the courage, I swear."_

These… love letters (he supposed that was what they were) had been arriving steadily for the past eleven months. Greece had begun to fear that the nervous, yet warm and strong feeling in his chest that he felt when he carefully opened and read each new letter was becoming far too deep. The thrill of an anonymous admirer had turned into a longing to hear the voice of the author, to hold the hand that wrote those words. He had begun to care for Ànthisi, whoever he was, much more than he should.

It had been sometime near the eighth letter that he had realised this. It was not written in the usual bright tone, and he had found his face frowning and emotions confused over the worry of a stranger. Ànthisi had spoken wearily of casual rejections, such as "acquaintances", "you seem more like a comrade" and others along those lines. Apparently, those kind of words that one would say in passing, not remembering them at all, were said often to Ànthisi, and he wished that Greece would realise exactly what he was saying. This letter had affected Greece deeply – he never really thought about what he said, so he had no recollection of saying such hurtful things. He could only wish, wish so very much, that he had never said them. Whoever Ànthisi was, he suddenly thought, he was so much more than a friend.

He called himself a coward, yet unlike Greece, he recognised his own feelings and was not afraid of them – that in itself was a kind of courage. It was this honesty that Greece had found himself becoming steadily drawn to, and it scared him, just slightly.

And thus, he had formulated a plan to finalise this, once and for all.

On the first of next month, it would be the anniversary of the arrival of the first letter. A year had passed, and in that year, Greece had fallen in love. It was ridiculous, but he knew that there was something more to his feelings than just simple affections. He had, effectively fallen in love with someone he'd never met. However, those simple white envelopes were the things he treasured the most, and he longed so _much_ to finally uncover their author. So, he would lay in wait. He would wait in his garden, all night if necessary, and when _he_ came to deliver the letter, Greece would take him, embrace him, whisper his love, kiss him and finally, _finally, _he would demand his real name. And then, Greece would repeat that name over and over on his admirer's lips until he was certain that his feelings had been conveyed. He would never let his love hide behind his pen and ink ever again.

Oh, Greece could not _wait_ for the first of next month.

_.^._.^._.^._.^._

Meanwhile, Japan was sitting in his study, doodling absent-mindedly over a piece of paper. He was thinking, daydreaming almost, about what to write. He knew exactly what he _wanted_ to say in his letter, and there was nothing stopping him writing it, as the letters he wrote would never be sent, but something held him back. His pride? He couldn't bear to _admit _his feelings – he couldn't even write his name down with Greece's, or talk about who he _really_ was, even in his secret letters. These letters that he carefully composed then dropped in the wastepaper basket – they were more like a diary, or a journal. Somewhere where he could write down in vague thoughts the essence of his desires, still afraid to voice them _clearly_, only to throw them out, away from the eyes of everyone. He never crumpled or tore up the letters. He felt like that would be… too much. To ruin something he'd written so carefully. So, he left them in the bin and tried to forget about them. Maybe, somewhere deep down, he wished that the letters would be found. It was stupid, but there was that single minute desire in his heart wishing for it all to end – for Greece to find out and to either accept it all or reject him completely. It was almost… shameful. For a nation to be so immature on the inside, hiding it with formalities and ambiguous comments so that his secret would not be discovered – a true disgrace.

Yet, whenever he thought of the man he addressed his letters to, his mind would, without real thought, begin to script new additions to his latest letter, things he longed to talk about, to laugh about, to share with his love. Greece… Greece would definitely smile and laugh, would accept his stories, but he would most likely never return Japan's feelings. After all, they were only friends. They only spent time alone together occasionally, but Japan sensed that Greece was unaware of his own charm. Anyway, until Japan could work up the courage to tell Greece his feelings face-to-face, no one would see his words. He looked down at his paper, briefly noting the small chrysanthemum he had doodled before throwing it in the bin.

He walked out into his porch, sitting on the edge, swinging his feet slightly. In the garden, he could clear his mind in the sunshine. Japan did not like thinking such heavy thoughts, and when he did, he usually avoided them for as long as possible. Sometimes, the perfect cure was to go and find Greece, maybe sit for a few hours talking and playing with the cats. In fact, he would immediately feel better after seeing Greece's smile. Everything he worried about, and all his fears would rise and become insignificant in the face of the time they could sit there and say everything and anything. _Except, that is, the truth…_ Japan ignored that thought, instead thinking of how he was going to remove the cat hair from the yukata he had worn at yesterday's picnic. Maybe Greece would know a good solution. They were his cats, after all.

As he pondered this, a maid quietly knocked on the screen door, and notified him that France had come round and was waiting in the lounge. He thanked her, then stood up unwillingly to go greet his guest. Brushing down his clothes, he considered France's reason for visiting. He had, for about a year now, been visiting Japan's house quite regularly. At the start, he had been surprised, but had found France an interesting man to talk to. France had said that he liked the culture here in Japan as it was so different from his own, and he was eager to learn about it, but usually they had ended up talking about France himself. Quite a few times, he had even tried to give Japan 'tips for attracting the attentions of certain peoples'. This amused Japan slightly – as if France knew anything. So, he just let him ramble on, ignoring most of the advice. Anyway, France was fun to talk to, and he did seem interested (sometimes) in talking about relevant matters.

He walked into the lounge smiling, and greeted France politely. France got up enthusiastically as soon as Japan entered, and kissed him on both cheeks in the true French style (something that Japan was only now getting used to). France laughed loudly, pointing out that Japan no longer blushed like a schoolgirl at his greeting, and what a _shame_ that was. Then, he seemed to remember something important, and theatrically grabbed both of Japan's shoulders.

"My dear Japan, we must go to your study. I have developed an interest in the art of calligraphy and I remember you telling me once about these beautiful works you have in there, and I would _love_ to see them, maybe you could even demonstrate some yourself, I do hear that you have quite an artistic streak…"

Japan nodded along with the rest of the words until France stopped talking (it seemed like he had only used two breaths to talk for over three minutes). He thanked France for his interest, and agreed to take him up and show him his collection. It was quite normal for France's visits to consist of some sudden interest in something Japanese that would last only as long as the visit (last time, it was tea ceremony), and often he would leave as suddenly as he came. Still, not many people came to visit him to see his collections, so he didn't mind France's whirlwind personality.

_.^._.^._.^._.^._

Four hours later, after a seemingly endless supply of monologues and questions about Japan's daily life and affairs (and the odd few about calligraphy), France seemed to finally realise the time. As he gathered his belongings and helped to replace the artworks in their storage cases, he mentioned a desire for a drink before leaving. This was routine – Japan would go to fetch a drink, and when he returned, France would be packed and ready to leave. The European would gulp the carefully prepared tea and hastily make his goodbyes – every time, like clockwork.

However, this time, Japan realised that he did not need to be so meticulous – France did not specifically _ask_ for tea, and with the speed that he drank it, it would probably be more convenient if he just had a glass of lemon water. So, he arrived back at the study a few minutes earlier than usual, and got quite a shock.

France was kneeling in front of Japan's waste-paper basket, holding a couple of sheets of its contents in his hands and wearing a very, very guilty expression. Quickly, he rearranged his features into his typical smile. Japan raised one eyebrow questioningly, as he set down the drink.

"I was just… Erm, I was looking to see if you had thrown out any nice examples of calligraphy that I could take home – I mean, if you don't want them, there should be no reason not to let me, right? Eh heh heh heh…"

Japan was confused, and a bit paranoid about the Frenchman's nervous manner, but he let it slide, saying only that France should not put his hands into other people's bins, and that if he wanted some examples he could go see a real artist.

France left pretty quickly after that, red-faced and clearly embarrassed. Maybe European customs were different, thought Japan, but that was _too _strange, What if there had been a letter in there (which he knew there hadn't been, he emptied the bin pretty regularly)? Oh, goodness, his whole reputation would be ruined. France would have _pitied_ him, wanted to play Cupid.

He resolved to be more careful with visitors in his office from then on.

* * *

><p><strong>[AN]**

**Gawd, that was a long chapter… Rose Fortress, I cannot guarantee how long this story will be or how long it will take. I have so many **_**ideas**_** for it…**

**Hobbsie - best editing yet. I'm sorry for getting all irky with you. Where would SilverWillowMusic Inc be without you? *cough wewouldn'texist cough*  
><strong>

**Thank you for reading, please review if you liked it! We love reviews! A review a day keeps the anti-inspiration monster away ;)**

**Much love,**

**Natsumi (SilverWillowMusic Inc, Main Author)**


	2. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Hey all,**

**I have some bad news. **

**1) This not a new chapter, so stop reading if you want.  
><strong>

**2) The big(gish) new: SilverWillowMusic Inc. is going on a hiatus. Not a huge one, just a month or so. As the main author, I just don't have the energy or time to write at the moment. Y'know, school exams, music exams, personal stuff... **

**Please don't give up on us, though. We will have the new chapters posted as soon as I can get back on track, and it hopefully won't take too long.**

**Apologies,**

**Natsumi (SWM Inc. Main Author)  
><strong>


End file.
